by Will Molinar
“Muldor. Thank the gods you’ve come. There’s a problem.”
“You don’t say.’
Muldor eyed Lawson and saw anger, as usual, but also confusion and fear. He nodded to Muldor, and then eyed the source of the commotion. Police Lieutenant Dillon, the young, bearded man, so tall and fair among all the swarthy sailors, looked so out of place. It made the scene all the more shocking.
Dillon smirked as he regarded Muldor, arrogance and a sort of self-satisfaction marred his handsome face. Everyone went silent as Muldor closed in on the main combatants, of which Lawson, Styles, and Dillon were the center. “Guild Master, fine morning isn’t it.”
“Muldor, these gits,” Styles said and indicated a few other officers that were present, “they tried to….”
Muldor patted the young man’s shoulder. “Calm yourself, Styles. This is not the time for petty name calling.”
“Nah,” said Lawson. “That comes later. After we hang someone.”
Muldor suppressed a frown and ignored the comment.
“Would you care to explain the nature of this brouhaha, Lieutenant Dillon, or shall I guess?”
Dillon set his jaw but did not answer the question. “Bring ‘em around!”
The crowd muttered as it broke apart behind him. Some other officers brought forth a chained group of prisoners, none of them happy. All were familiar to Muldor. He recognized them in a flash. His eyes grew wide, and he could not suppress a shudder of apprehension.
Each man was a very important member of the crew. In fact, they were the most important members, as Dillon had taken into custody all five captains of the fighting vessels, sans the commanders of the two supply vessels, Flotsam and Jetsam.
There was lanky Stephenson and stocky DuPont, captains of the two frigates, Rigmarole and The Hazard. Captain Bergen looked at Muldor with an air of accusation as if he caused it to begin with. Stark, captain of The Righteous, followed behind them, and last of all was Commodore Neville. Grey haired and with a powerful build, he was a nominal leader of the fleet since he captained the flagship The Vigilant.
None of them spoke. They stood still in their chains, looking to Muldor.
The Guild Master eyed Dillon, who looked even more arrogant holding the advantage for the moment. Muldor tried to make sense of it all. He had assumed his idea to use thieves as slave labor would have mollified Dillon over the lack of support for the new jail, but maybe not. But it felt deeper. Dillon lacked the avarice for this kind of maneuver.
Muldor tapped his foot. “I’m still waiting for an explanation, lieutenant.”
“Well, since your general amnesty for all thieves went over so good, now we have room in the jail for the real criminals.”
“The new jail is being built. What more could your men ask for?”
Dillon crossed his arms and stood still. “Maybe they’d rather have some respect in this town and not be pushed around by politicians like you. Maybe they would rather do their jobs without interference.”
Muldor ignored the wounded pride emanating from the group of police there and focused on the situation at hand. “What are these men’s crimes?”
With this statement, Dillon showed his first sign of distress. He cleared his throat. “That’s police business. I’m afraid I cannot tell you.”
Muldor stood closer to him. “This is Guild business. Lieutenant Dillon, these men are essential to the success of this fleet’s mission, and I demand that you release them this instant.”
Lawson stepped forward. “Yeah, we’re sailing soon, you bastard.”
Some of the sailors grumbled, and Muldor saw Bergen’s first mate, a stern man with a salt and pepper beard named Archwood, step close to his captain. More men grumbled in agreement. The two men shared a look. Muldor knew for a fact Captain Bergen was not the only member of his crew that was well armed.
Dillon narrowed his eyes, and Muldor understood this man, with whom he had limited contact, was not as intelligent or as strong willed as Captain Cubbins.
“You can’t make demands to me,” Dillon said. “The Guild has no power over the police. Our charter is royal, backed by the king.”
The police were numerous. Muldor counted over a dozen officers there, all armed with their heavy clubs and some with short swords, the sergeants only though. They were men that had seen their share of violence, which was one reason they were chosen for their positions. Muldor saw a few former City Watch members, large men who did well in that position and were promoted to better pay and equipment and as a cop. They knew how to handle a crowd.
But the crowd had grown larger the last few minutes, and while Dillon spoke with one of his men, a sergeant named Bigus. Muldor stood back and let the sailors grumble louder. They were men out of work for a long time, hungry for consistent coin and ecstatic to get berths on the fleet. But if the fleet did not have captains, the fleet could not sail, and if they didn’t sail, these men did not get paid.
Lawson said something disparaging about Dillon’s parentage and insisted the captains be set free, but Dillon stayed calm. Muldor watched the exchange and said nothing, letting the bubbling energy increase.
“Hey! We gotta sail today, you pigs!”
“Yeah, I ain’t worked in months. You gonna feed my family, Dillon?”
“Let ‘em go!”
“They didn’t do nothin’!”
“What’s the charge, lieutenant? Tell us that.”
The Guild Master met Dillon’s gaze, and to the policeman’s credit, he stood his ground. The crowd grew louder, and Dillon’s short conversations with his men were drowned out by the noise. His eyes shifted from Muldor, to the people clamoring around, and back again. He looked like a fox trapped by hunting dogs.
They could take them, the crowd against the police, if Muldor so ordered. The mob would have stripped them down of weapons, pummeled them on the dirt road, and tossed them into the water. As they kept shouting and bustled closer to the officers, Dillon’s men raised their clubs and shoved some of them back.
The choice lay with Muldor. He stood still and crossed his arms, meeting the lieutenant’s gaze once more, and as Dillon realized what was happening, his face began to show true fear. Even his blond beard paled.
“Has Captain Cubbins returned from his sabbatical?” Muldor said.
Dillon shook his head and stuttered. “N-no. He’ll be back, though. Look, Muldor, I have my orders. Take it up with Lord Cassius if you want, but I have to take these men in.”
Muldor’s mind clicked. Muldor filed away the questions for a later contemplation, for at the moment he had to stop Dillon from taking the captains as well as stop the crowd from overeating. Bloodshed was to be avoided, but Dillon also needed to understand who was in charge.
If Dillon were being ordered by Cassius, which Muldor doubted, he was only doing his job. Lord Cassius had tried to pull funding from construction on the Eastern Road and argued in private against some aspects of the fleet’s proposed mission. Muldor decided it was worth a couple of day’s time to investigate further.
The crowd continued to murmur, and by now the group had swelled to outnumber the police by five to seven times their number. The police gripped their weapons in white knuckled hands. If they struck enough people fast enough and with the necessary level of violence, it might have scared the rest off.
But people would get hurt. And now there were some Guild security men close by too, men Muldor could call on to join in the fight. Muldor met their gaze and shared a node with some of them. A total of eleven men, and the crowd perhaps sensed the extra weight to their arguments.
Everyone looked to Muldor and Dillon for direction, and Muldor knew he had the upper hand. Muldor raised a hand and his voice:
“Please, everyone! A moment, please. This is not the time for violence. No one wants anyone to get hurt. Isn’t that right, Lieutenant Dillon? I’m sure we can come to some kind of compromise. I suggest we allow the prisoners to remain on board their vessels, and you have my word th
ey will stay here until a further investigation takes place. I will speak with Lord Cassius myself.”
The crowd relaxed but did not seem happy. Muldor saw a measure of relief flood into Dillon’s eyes but also a level of distrust common with men who lived in this town.
“How do I know you won’t set sail as soon as we depart? I’ve had your word before, Muldor. That doesn’t sit right with most of us. How can I believe you now?”
“Hey!” Lawson said. “If he says we don’t sail, we won’t. Give them back.”
Muldor had to suppress the desire to tell Lawson to keep his mouth still. The man’s passion was appreciated, but this was not the time to push Dillon too hard.
“Lieutenant Dillon,” Muldor said. “I understand your reticence, but I must make my position clear. Please accept my proposition or risk the livelihood of your men. This is not a threat. This is the reality of the situation. Please, I do not wish to see violence here. The city is rife enough with the pain of physical injury.”
Dillon hesitated. Muldor raised his arms and indicated the bustling bodies around him. There were dozens of people, hundreds counting the inroads around the other sections of the shipping yards, all crowding forward to rip the police to pieces.
“This is your decision, Lieutenant. Don’t be the one to have their blood on your hands. What will Captain Cubbins think when he returns? How many of your men will you lose, and for what?”
Though Muldor knew Dillon to be a prideful man, hence the stand against and sting of the general amnesty on the thieves, he was not stupid. The situation was clear to them all.
“Go ahead and let them go. But I’m telling you, Muldor, don’t go back on your word. Do I have your absolute assurance they will be kept here until the situation is straightened out with the Lord Governor’s office?”
Muldor nodded and felt relieved. “You do. They were all prepared to sail this very day, so there is no need for them to leave the confines of the shipping yards. Everyone here shall bear witness to my promise.”
The crowd echoed agreement with the deal. It gave them something to feel good about, a sense of power and participation they did not often garner from their lives. Some might’ve considered them pawns in a game, but Muldor liked to think of them as pieces to a puzzle.
“Fine,” Dillon said and the police stood down. “But I will hold you to it, make no mistake. And you might not like what happens if you renege on your promise. I expect to hear from you soon.”
Muldor ignored the last bit and faced the captains. “Now, gentlemen, if you will permit me the indulgence of some patience, remain here for the time being until this is cleared up. This is preferable to spending time in jail.”
They agreed. A few moments later, and the crowd had broken up, still murmuring about stupid cops and unfair practices. The police were wise enough to leave when they could. Muldor hung back with Lawson by his side as the captains conferred with one another, rubbing their sores wrists. They looked relieved but annoyed. Neville in particular stared daggers at the departing police, and Muldor could not repress an internal shudder. There was something in the older man’s eyes that screamed danger and death.
“So now what, Muldor?” Lawson said. “How do we clear this up, as you said?”
Ah, the impatience of youth. “I believe a show of strength and solidarity is order. We shall meet with the other Dock Masters and then bring our case to Lord Cassius.”
Lawson nodded but looked hesitant. “Uh, sure. But listen, I think we should go to just Becket. He and me are senior anyway, yeah? Won’t the three of us be enough?”
Muldor eyed him but decided not to argue. There was enough going on in his life and brain at the moment. And Lawson was correct. The two senior Dock Masters and the Guild Master should be sufficient to confront the Lord Governor on this matter.
“Yes,” Muldor said. “Let us visit Master Becket this very moment.”
* * * * *
An early morning sprinkling of rain pestered the Western Docks during an unusual twist of inclement weather, for the sun shone down at the same time. The gods of the storms were fickle. They gave and they took way; such was life.
Becket didn’t mind the rain. He rather enjoyed the calming influence of the pitter patter as the fluid struck the roof of his office and fell down the side of the warehouse to slide back into the sea. It was nice to feel more relaxed during the day. The cool breeze was a welcoming calm that released his nerves.
The recent circumstances surrounding his job had been stressful, so he sat in his office and read from a book of poetry, one of his favorites. Madam Dreary had given it to, in fact. She was a collector of books, most of which were on the history of the continent, but she also had some other titles she lent him.
There was a knock on his door, and Becket looked up. “Yes?”
One of his assistants popped their head around the door. “Master Becket? Masters Lawson and Muldor are here to see you.”
Becket frowned and put his book down. “All right. Show them in please.”
“Sir, they are outside.”
“Fine. I’ll be right out. Thank you.”
They waited in the rain though by then it had died down to a mere drizzle. Becket glanced at them both with a quick glance, trying to judge their mood. Lawson was more fidgety than normal, and Muldor was his usual still and dull self. The Guild Master will be the only man that has the same pulse rate when dead as when alive.
“I take it this is important,” Becket said.
“Indeed,” said Muldor and in brief, told him what had transpired minutes ago at the shipping yards. Becket nodded, not feeling all that. There was always something.
But then he was struck with apprehension about what might be a related matter. The image of what he had seen at Sea Haven Asylum hit him then. It was time to get another opinion on the matter.
“Look,” Becket said, took a deep breath. “There’s something else we have to do first, and it’s important we go see this together before we see Lord Cassius.”
Lawson scrunched his face up in confusion. Muldor was hard to read as usual, but he seemed to be mulling things over, deciding if he should trust Becket or not.
“What are you talking about, Becket?” Lawson said. “There’s no time. We gotta get this captain thing finished. We were supposed to leave today.”
“I realize that, but this might be related. I don’t think we can trust Cassius. But I’m ready to trust you, Muldor. Guild Master.”
Muldor took a deep breath and inclined his head. “Very well. I shall trust you, Master Becket. But please, indulge us both as to the details of your dilemma.”
“Fine but I have to show you. Come this way.”
Lawson muttered something under his breath Becket didn’t quite catch, something about fools wasting time. The young man started whining minutes later as they got closer to the asylum. “Where are you taking us Becket?”
So much for Gunnar and he being part of a team, as the younger man kept pestering him all the way north. The rain increased its force with the wind joining in to pester them with building force. They pulled their cloaks tighter about their shoulders.
“Becket, did you hear me? I asked where we were going. What’s the big mystery?”
Becket sighed. “Sea Haven Asylum.”
Lawson stopped walking and stared at Becket as if his head were on fire. “Why the hell would we wanna go there?”
Becket slowed but motioned them on. Muldor was a thick bodied blob, stolid and unyielding. Lawson was a thin, wiry youth, all passion and energy.
“Because what I have to show you is there. Or should I say, who I have to show you is there now.”
“Who? Becket, what is going on? Who are you talking about?”
“If you’d shut up and walk faster, you’d know sooner, wouldn’t you?”
Lawson stayed silent, but Becket could feel his annoyance and frustration boring into the back of his skull. A mile or two later they reached the asylum. All thre
e were dripping wet as the rain had increased its intensity. Their robes were heavy with moisture, clinging to their bodies. Becket could feel his badge of office, a heavy gold medallion, thumping his chest as the weight of his robes pressed against it.
The hunchback Fernando answered the door, and Becket wondered how the cripple moved so fast with his deformity. He glanced at them, recognizing Becket and stepped back, nodding his large head. Becket thought he saw the glimmer of recognition in his eyes when he saw Muldor.
“Can you take us to the warden, please?”
“Yes, yes, Fernando take you. Anything for the Guild man.”
Lawson looked uncomfortable as he stared at the strange cripple and Muldor looked… compassionate. It was hard to believe to see empathy in the eyes of such a cold, dispassionate man.
They met Warden Harris in his office, and Becket wasted no time explaining what they needed.
“We need to see him.”
The red headed man looked intimidated. “Of-of course, good Masters. Come this way.”
Becket got the impression they had walked in on something no one besides asylum staff was supposed to see, but they saw nothing going on worth his notice. No doubt there was abuse going on with the treatment of the inmates, but Becket was doubtful they even understood what was happening to them.
“47 is down here,” Warden Harris said, leading down a lonesome hallway with Fernando in tow. A feeling of terror struck Becket at that moment, more powerful than it had been during his last visit. He knew who and what was there in that cold, dark cell, slavering away like a captured beast.
A soft moaning, the pitiful bleating of the demented, surrounded them on all sides from other cells. Lawson was nervous. An arm shot out of one of the holding cells, and he couldn’t help jumping back and yelling out. “Son of a whore!”
The arm was emaciated, covered in filthy rags, and the hand was little more than a gnarled claw. The nails were blackened and split. It twisted and swatted at the door while the three Guild members stared, fascinated.
Fernando clubbed it hard with his thick truncheon, and the unseen owner of the appendage squealed in pain and pulled it back inside. The hunchback giggled and hopped about in delight. His twisted features alighted with glee.